Burnt
Some things aren't worth mentioning. The betrayals. The authorities. The resulting sorrow.
Trauma,
on the other hand, that might be worth exploring. The way it builds up
like a question inside your gullet. A sick, light helium feeling of
dread and wrong been done. It builds up into an unimpressive weight of
mucous-thick grey, a viscous mud clogging up the system. Trauma is five
trips to the toilet in two hours, bleeding diarrhea like water,
festering pain so low in the gut it feels dangerous.
You eat at yourself from the inside, close your eyes and take three
tiny pills hoping to forget. Grinding your teeth together until jaws are
aching, turning on the couch, ungainly and huge, your nightgown bunched
up underneath your side until it pulls at your throat. Choking on
accusations and misguided assumptions, no hope to redeem oneself. No
hope.
It's one thing to choose deception as a path in life. Almost
honorable. The grifter's code. It's another to believe you are doing
everything right only to be misinterpreted until you believe you may
have been doing it all wrong. No amount of crazy outside can help you
deal with the doubt inside.
You burn sage and candles, cough in the smoke of herbs and
incantations, and pray for release. All the while, you wonder what karma
brought this misery to your doorstep, and how much more you will have
to repay before it is over.
In the distance, the train whistle screeches into a dense fog.
Summer cold. Icy isolation. Some things take time. You hope. You hope
time is the answer. You hope it's all over. Heal now. Heal.
Demand it.
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